Introduction

Hello, dear readers! Welcome to the premier of my very first request fic! Thanks be to the requester, who will go anonymous for the time being.

So, some minor details here. First: I do go off the strict canon here. Bear with me and message if you have any specific questions- my beta reader was most thorough, so I have good reasons for all of my deviations.

Second: I use a writing style that's rather unique. At first look it appears I switch from third person to first person and back again, but it is not the case. I take the standpoint of a third-party omniscient observer, so there are character thoughts mixed in with events. They are marked by italics, which are also used to emphasize individual words. It isn't that hard once you get used to it. I also use point of view writing in a third person context.

With that out of the way, I present to you:

Sands of Fortune.

It was two years after she had finally given up on Aladdin. Oh, she'd put on a show, pretending to be "good" and "buddying up" with Jasmine- but she remembered. She remembered every second of loving him. She remembered every moment she'd spent wasting her life pursuing him. And a strange thing had happened to that love- it had changed, darkened. Where before had burned a foolish desire, a great big ball of hatred now squatted. She felt anger coursing through her veins when she thought of him. Occasionally she would see him from a distance, flying around on his magic carpet with Jasmine.

That stuck-up Princess infuriated her. She forced a smile when they met, but really she just wanted to punch her in the face. And then trap her in a giant cocoon of sand. And punch her in the face again. The bitch deserved it.

The oath she'd taken surfaced in her mind. Do no harm. In her travels she had honed and perfected her magics until she had absolute confidence in them. But she had also decided to dedicate her life to doing something useful with her magic- to heal instead of destroy. She'd become a healer. A magi devoted to preserving life. Herbalist, midwife, doctor and apothecary- she'd worn all of these titles at one time or another. She'd even thought, then several hundred miles away from this city, that she could move on past Aladdin. Forget him.

Two years was a long time to have been travelling. A lot can change in two years on your own, on a mercy mission to whomever needed it. But she'd returned. One thing hadn't changed.

She still hated him.

She'd struggled with the problem for a long time. Even though she still hated him with a burning passion, two years of fighting to save lives instead of taking them still gave her pause. Eventually, she'd decided to find some help. Loopholes. Aladdin had other enemies, she was sure. It was just a matter of finding them.

In the guise of a street rat, just another humble peasant, she sprang off into the dust of the city. Soon, Aladdin, She gloated mentally. Soon you shall lie dead.

The man was heavily muscled. Truly, a marvellous specimen among men. A man like that should fear none.

But he feared one. He knelt before that one. His life rested on the whims of that one.

"My Lord," he said in a hushed tone. "I have returned."

"You don't say." His voice was silky-smooth and yet laced with power. "Truly, your powers of observation astound me." The man trembled under the verbal onslaught. A smile tugged at the corner of the smooth-voiced man's perfectly sculpted mouth. He greatly enjoyed the fear he so obviously inspired in the man. "But that is aside. What news do you bring?"

"Aladdin has not moved. He rests in the palace with that royal whore and only leaves for rides on his carpet."

"Is the palace well guarded?"

"The djinni stands watch by day and by night. Although the princ- Aladdin," he said hastily, seeing storm clouds gather on his master's brow, "Set him free, he remains devoted to him. Aladdin is not vulnerable there." The master frowned.

"What of these carpet rides?" The man grinned, happy to finally have something of use to report.

"Aladdin wishes for privacy. The djinni is nowhere to be seen." The master thought about it for a moment. Perfect. He could strike then, when that foolish peasant was focused on the princess.

"Thank you." The servant had outlived his usefulness. "Kill him." The man died with a surprised look on his face. The unspoken question why remained unformed on his lips.

"Is it my fault you were so trusting?" quipped Mozenrath, ruler of the Black Sand. With a spin and a flourish of his cape, he was gone from the throne room.

Two Weeks Later

Agrabah at night. The oppressive heat of the day quickly gave way to a startling chill as the sun set and took its warmth with it. A few lights burned across the city, but oil was expensive and most of the lights were gone within an hour of sundown. In the dark, each building began to resemble every other building in the city, and anyone who hadn't lived in the city their entire life would quickly become hopelessly lost.

It had been a while, but Sadira still remembered. She jumped up, catching the edge of a roof and catapulting herself over and on to it using the strength in her arms. She tucked and rolled, springing up and immediately finding her stride. Her breathing settled into a steady rhythm- in, out, in, out- that matched the beating of her heart. Occasionally she would gather herself and leap to another rooftop, landing lightly with no sound.

Stealth was the key to being a good street rat, and Sadira had been the best. She'd learned very young to be light on her feet and agile in her movements; years of training showed in her slim yet muscular form and the grace in her stride. The very way she ran- stooped over slightly, shoulders hunched an infinitesimally small degree- gave her the appearance of a predator on the hunt.

Below her in the streets, two thugs walked in the darkness.

"Did you hear the way she screamed?" One said, laughing cruelly.

"Oh, I know! And then the way she sounded when you shoved your-" He stopped, a strange gurgling noise coming from his mouth. His friend turned to see what it was.

"Hey, are you oka-" He froze as he saw the blade through his friend's neck. Sadira withdrew it with a sickening shlick. The thug hit the ground with a thud. The remaining one pulled a long, sharp knife out of the waistline of his pants.

"You'll regret that!" He hissed at Sadira. He stepped forward and slashed out with the knife.

She still remembered her first fight. Two years after the plague had claimed her sister's life. Two years after the day she'd sworn vengeance on the greedy bastards who had refused to give up the medicine that would have saved her. She'd been about ten years old at the time, orphaned and living as a street rat in the slums of Agrabah. Starving, homeless, she'd finally managed to steal herself a meager loaf of bread. She'd curled up in a corner to eat it when the big man had came in and took the bread from her.

Anger; hot, blazing anger had sprang up in her and she'd leapt to her feet, ready to take this man on. He'd just laughed and left her sprawled in the dust, bruised and bleeding.

Sadira ducked under the slash, lashing out with her leg and delivering a kick to the thug's chest. He flew backward with an oof, hitting the ground hard. She stomped on the arm holding the knife, snapping his radius in half. He screamed in pain and dropped the knife.

She remembered her first kill. She'd broken into the carpenter's and taken a small carving knife. She'd walked up to the man who'd stolen her bread and told her he was going to die. She had driven the knife into his stomach while he laughed in his arrogance. She had stabbed him again and again until he was the one lying on the floor, bleeding from dozens of deep wounds. Rage had made her blind- every bit of anger, resentment, and murderous hatred exploded out of her. Her sister's death. Stab. Her mother's death. Stab. Her father's abandonment. Stab. She'd left the knife impaled in his eye.

The thug in the present whimpered as Sadira swiftly kicked him in the ribs, breaking them. Then she bent over him.

"Burn in hell," She whispered in Hindi, bringing the blade of her katar across his throat in a swift, violent movement. Blood sprayed up from his neck. He gurgled for a moment and was still. She rested for a moment and closed his eyes with two fingers. She sent a silent prayer to whatever might be listening. Give this one what he deserves.

It had been back then, in that dusty alley, that she'd learned the secret to winning fights. It wasn't being more skilled. It wasn't being stronger.

It was being angrier.

Sadira had traveled the world for two years. She'd served as many things- a midwife, a healer, an apothecary, a witch- and she'd seen so many pointless deaths. Mothers, sometimes as young as twelve years old, sacrificing their lives to bring a child into the world. Stillborn infants who died as they left the womb. Young girls, bruised and beaten as the result of an abusive spouse. Young men and women who'd simply starved to death in the streets because nobody cared enough to feed them. Innocents killed because they looked the wrong way at a noble.

She stood up, dusting off her garments. She wiped the blood off of her blade with one of the thug's shirts, tucking it back into its place, sheathed securely near the small of her back. She'd been too late to stop them from violating that girl. But she had taken revenge.

So much suffering. So much death.

Sadira was very, very angry.

The dark emperor paced his chambers, his cape billowing behind him and his loyal familiar Xerxes frantically trying to keep up with him.

"I've done everything," He griped, frustration written all over his expression. "I've trapped them, I've trapped them again, I've even hired a bounty hunter to take care of that damned djinni- but nothing works!" He paused, looking at the floating eel. "What am I doing wrong, Xerxes? What haven't I thought of?"

"A vacation," Xerxes said under his breath. Mozenrath heard it anyways and waved away the suggestion.

"Nonsense. Vacations are for the weak. Think, Mozenrath, think!" He screwed up his face, descending deep into his thoughts. There was a knock at the door. "Oh, for the love of-" He threw open the door using a spell. "What?" He asked irritably. The servant paled.

"S-sir," he stammered. "T-there's been rumours in the marketplace, and-" Mozenrath scoffed.

"You come to me with your gossip and hope that justifies interrupting me?" He raised the arm with The Gauntlet on it.

"There was a woman!" The servant yelped, panicking. " A woman in the markets looking for you! Please don't kill me, sir, I-" Mozenrath was suddenly very close.

"What woman?" He said in a low voice. The servant scrabbled for this lifeline.

"I don't know sir, she was wearing a niqab, and a robe. Looked very shady, sir." Mozenrath stalked away.

"Interesting," he said to himself. "It could be a spy." Xerxes crept to his side.

"Or ally." It remarked. Mozenrath cast a sideways glance.

"Explain yourself."

"Mozenrath called 'evil.' Known widely. Who look for Mozenrath who is not also evil?" Mozenrath tapped his chin and turned to the servant.

"Have her followed. Report everything and have her snatched as soon as night falls." The servant inclined his head and carefully backed out of the room closing the door behind him. Mozenrath turned to face a dark corner of the room.

"Destane!" Some thing shuffled out of the darkness. Its skin hung loosely off of its body and its eyes were blank and dead. Mozenrath smiled, a small, cruel smile. This broken shell was all that remained of his former master. "Go with the snatchers. Show this woman exactly what happens to people who cross me."

His presence should serve to frighten the woman, as well as send a clear message. Mozenrath was not to be trifled with. The once alive and repulsive man shuffled off, back into the darkness to crawl through the dark, slimy places he deserved. As a child, Mozenrath had often fantasized about killing Destane. When the chance had finally came, he hadn't killed him. He'd forced him into his service and magicked him so he couldn't even die to escape. Destane had been less than human to begin with. This was just it showing.

He returned to his desk and removed the Gauntlet, clenching the skeletal hand beneath. That damned Gauntlet. It was what enabled his power, but some part of it was slowly destroying him. It had begun with his arm before Mozenrath had found a way to dampen the effect. It was too late, however- all of the flesh was gone from his arm.

The bones of his fingers clicked as they moved. His greatest strength, also his greatest weakness. He had no idea what kept his ligaments from decaying. He lived in fear of losing the arm. He protected the bones at all costs, knowing full well how easy it was to break a bone. He'd broken a few himself. Other people's, of course.

He still remembered how it had felt when he'd felt Destane's skull crack in his grip. His fingers flexed with the memory. He relished it.

Mozenrath didn't lie to himself. He enjoyed the pain of others. He liked to see people suffer. However, he did recognise when to exercise restraint. Sadism was a luxury he rare afforded himself.

Suddenly he felt a tugging sensation. His vision sharpened until his normally invisible aura appeared, a faint circle of black surrounding him. He shot to his feet and threw open a window. This feeling. I know this feeling. He hadn't felt it since he'd taken down Destane. Another magician is nearby. The streets beneath his view were thronged with people. None of them had a visible aura. He shut his eyes, tuning out the sights and sounds of the city.

It was an inexplicable fact. Mozenrath's strongest sense was smell. The city smelt of bodies, incense, animals and... Wait. There was an unfamiliar smell. Something foreign, like an exotic spice from a vendor, except he knew all of them. This was unknown. I've got you now. He opened his eyes and he could see the lingering trail of a very powerful aura, rivaling even his own. It was the color of blood.

The tugging feeling began to fade and his vision slowly returned to normal. The magic user was gone. But he remembered that aura. He would know the next time he felt it.

And he would find whoever it was.

They weren't terribly good.

She'd spotted them almost right away, a group of ordinary people except for the fact that whatever innocent activity they appeared to be doing, somehow they always ended up following her. Somebody had set a tail on her.

She'd felt a massively powerful magical presence earlier that had given her a scare. Magic users can detect each other. The efficiency of this process is governed by a few laws: Distance, Power, and Use. The further away they are, the fainter the trail is. The more powerful the user, the more obvious their aura. The more they used their power, the stronger it grew.

This aura had been extremely powerful. She'd only been on the very edge of it's influence and she'd still almost been crushed with the sheer potential of it. She knew the other had felt her- they had to have. Whoever it was had probably sent these ones after her.

They didn't seem to pose an immediate threat, so she refocused on her main goal. So far, it seemed like Aladdin didn't have any enemies that weren't dead or in prison. She'd heard a faint rumor, the mere suggestion of a name: Mozenrath. But asking around had yielded nothing. She'd been able to see it in their faces- Mozenrath was a name they feared much more than this weird woman running around in a niqab, asking questions she shouldn't. None of them would talk, except to tell her that he was the ruler of some Black Sands place she'd hardly ever heard of. The entire day, wasted.

Sadira yawned. She was exhausted. Searching for Aladdin's enemies by day and exacting her vigilante revenge at night was leaving very little time for sleep. It was running her ragged.

The call for evening prayer sounded across the city from the high towers of the mosque. Sadira glanced up at the sky. The sun was fat and heavy and slowly sinking over the horizon. It would be dark soon.

She turned around to find a man staring at her. Normally, men didn't scare her, but there was something different about this one. He was clad from head to toe in black cloth. Only his eyes showed from a black turban. He stood absolutely still, arms at his sides unnaturally. She glanced around. The street had emptied far too quickly. She turned around again to see another man in black robes blocking the other end of the street.

It was a trap. She turned back to the first man.

"You will come with us." A command, not a request. His voice was gravelly and low. More black men appeared, surrounding her completely. Her talwar was back in her hideout. All she had were her katar. The men didn't appear armed, but they positively emanated maliciousness. She doubted she could take them all. There was no choice but to go forward with this.

They hustled her along back alleys, marching with a mechanical precision- perfectly in sync. She lost track of the turns after the thirtieth. She didn't recognize the area they were in. That was strange. She knew the entire city, inside and out.

She gasped as she felt his presence. It was the same one from earlier. If anything, it was stronger now, pulsing and throbbing with raw, uncontained energy. She could see it, faintly in the air- black tendrils of smoke writhing around like slimy things. Oh, this was bad, this was very bad. She couldn't allow herself to be captured by whoever it was.

She turned to sand, a million particles of her falling only to reform behind one of the guards. Her katar was in her hand and she sunk it deep into the back of the guard. He slowly inclined his head, looking back at the katar embedded in his back. Then he turned, completely unaffected. She ripped off his turban, intending to slash at his head with her other katar. She screamed in horror and stumbled backwards at the sight.

The man was dead. His skin hung off of his face, yellow and shrunken. His eyes were blank white and seemed dry in their sockets. They had no pity, no anger- no emotion at all.

"That was not wise." His voice was horrid, all cracked and hoarse. She could see the decay emerging from his lungs as he spoke. "If you attempt to use your magic again, you will be punished." She struggled to find her voice.

"W-What are you?" She asked in terror.

"My name is Destane." Destane. She knew that name well. In her youth there had been stories- stories of the horrible, horrible things he did to women. Seduced them into his harem and then experimented on them… "Now I serve Mozenrath."

Of course. Mozenrath. He owned that aura. But if he'd taken down Destane and made him into this… thing, what would he do to her? The thing that used to be Destane roughly pulled her to her feet, shoving her out in front of him. The terrible procession continued.

Finally she was marched into a huge building, its contours hidden in the darkness. The ground beneath her feet changed from sand to polished marble. That wasn't good. She couldn't use her sand magic if there wasn't any sand. The interior was pitch dark, but the men seemed to know where they were going. Finally they left her in a large, open space. She could see none of it, but she could feel the air currents in the room. They were cold and heavy.

"So." His voice rang in the silence. It was smooth, but laced with power. "Rumor has it you've been looking for Mozenrath." A light flared up, illuminating an arm clad in a steel gauntlet. The arm waved lazily, and the fire in his palm flew around the room, setting dozens of torches ablaze. "You found him."

That first moment seemed to last forever. She was not expecting him to be handsome. His face was delicately sculpted, all sharp angles and smooth light brown skin. His eyes were his most astonishing feature- they were gold. His pupils looked like a cat's. The effect was strangely beautiful. Slowly, she pulled off her niqab.

He looked at her for an agonizingly long time. Finally, she saw the corner of his pretty mouth curl up.

"Hello," he said. "Let's talk."

If she hasn't been prepared for him, he sure hadn't been prepared for her. A lifetime of reading people allowed him to see as much of her personality as her appearance.

The moment she pulled off her niqab, he felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. Her face wasn't beautiful in and of itself. Her eyes were the usual color; her skin slightly darker than the norm. A thin white scar stretched its way from the corner of her left eye across her cheek. Her hair fell smoothly down around her head, sleek and yet not glossy. It was plain and that in itself spoke volumes.

Her posture was strong and proud, and yet had a predatory lean to it. Her face was a mixture of defiance and fear. Her hands were clenched into fists. He noticed nail marks on the side of her palms, indicating she balled her fists frequently. She was angry a lot. Her eyes were soft and yet hard, speaking of compassion backed by an unrelenting wrath, born of strife and loss. There were more frown lines than laugh lines in her skin of her mouth.

Now that they were so close, he could clearly see her aura. It blazed brightly in a scarlet red, the color of blood. She was very, very powerful, and used to carrying this power. The corner of his mouth curled up.

"Hello," he said lazily. "Let's talk." He rose to his feet, his robes billowing around him. "You were looking for me. You obviously know who I am. Do you see the disadvantage this puts me at? You see, I don't know who you are. So-" he wheeled around and directed a penetrating stare at her. "Who are you?"

She swallowed before answering.

"I am Sadira." Her voice was strong and melodious. "I'm a sand witch." His eyebrow raised skeptically.

"THE Sand Witch?" He asked dubiously. She merely nodded. "I'd heard of a new leadership among them. But, the question still remains. Why are you here?"

"Because," she said, seeing an opening. "You're the only one who hates Aladdin as much as I do."

He snapped his fingers.

"Of course! You're that little witch who was always obsessed with Aladdin!" He looked pleased with himself, then frowned. "I thought you'd made your peace and are in good with that filth." A stormy expression came over Sadira and her aura grew even darker.

"I… thought I had." She spoke quietly. "I haven't." Mozenrath nodded, feeling a twinge of sympathy that he immediately stamped out. It wouldn't do to be growing a conscience.

"I see." He said it without inflection, leaving her to interpret the connotation as she would. He remained silent for moments that seemed to stretch for hours. "This does put you in a rather convenient place to strike at Aladdin." She nodded.

"I have access to the palace. The only issue is the djinni." Mozenrath began to pace back and forth.

"Not an issue. If you kill him quickly, you can be away before anyone realizes."

"No." Sadira interrupted him. "We don't kill him." Her words hung heavily in the air. Mozenrath froze, a penetrating stare directed at her.

"Think carefully about your next words," Mozenrath warned. Sadira swallowed, her throat suddenly dry, before continuing.

"I don't want him to die. I want him to suffer more than any human has ever suffered before." Another skeptical eyebrow.

"And how do you propose to accomplish this?" She launched into a massive explanation of a plan that was so diabolic, so cruelly evil the the Dark ruler wondered that he hadn't come up with it himself. His demeanour grew more and more impressed the more she explained. When she finally finished, he walked forward and placed the Gauntleted hand on her shoulder, looking square into her eyes.

"Sadira, welcome. I think we shall accomplish beautiful things together."

His touch electrified her, sending tingles throughout her entire body, little sparks shooting from the point of contact. His eyes were astonishingly beautiful up close. She couldn't breathe. Her head spun. It was all so wonderfully disorienting.

He moved back away and the spell was broken. She caught her breath and her vision steadied, but something remained behind, fluttering around in her stomach like a butterfly. What the hell was this? It was like nothing she'd ever felt before.

He was seated on his throne, reclining back in ease.

"You may stay here, in one of the guest rooms, for the duration of our little plot." His voice interrupted her reverie.

"There's no need," she said hastily. "I have a place in the-" His smile was as predatory as a shark's.

"I insist." She decided it would be wiser to accede to him than to fight it.

"My things are still at the other place." He waved a hand.

"Tell one of the servants where it is and what you need. They'll fetch it for you." He paused for a moment longer. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to." He inclined his head to her, a quick, short nod, and swept out of the chamber.

A servant was waiting to take her to her room. Another of the black robed men. He- it- was silent the whole time. The whole estate was made entirely of black marble, and lit by torches that burned with a green, oddly unwavering flame. The overall effect was quite intimidating.

The room he'd given her was inexplicably different. It was panelled with a rich, dark wood that she had never seen before. There was a magnificent fireplace with an actual, crackling flame. An intricately detailed carpet was before it. Strangely, countering the opulence of the place, the bed was a mere roll on the floor with a simple white pillow. Fine by her. She'd slept in less before.

Later, while the world slept, Mozenrath paced, awake despite the lateness of the hour. He paused as he walked past the door he knew Sadira to be behind. A battle raged within him. He slowly and softly opened the door just a crack.

The fire in the room burned low, but his heritage allowed him to see in very little light. He clearly saw her. The way her hair spilled across her face. The scar on her cheek. The shape of her lips. The slow rise and fall of her chest as she slept.

He shut the door softly. Troubled, he stalked off into the night.